


Sleepless

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Gen, Workplace, in which Vesuvia's resident hot mess is strong-armed into self care, spoilers for Julian's recovered memories of the plague years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 09:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: That feeling when the hardest part of your job is keeping your boss alive despite his best efforts.





	Sleepless

Dawn has not yet broken when Shayara lets herself in to the clinic.

Brundle, curled in her bed by the entrance, barely lifts her head in acknowledgement, and Shayara smiles wryly.

“You are an absolutely useless guard dog,” she says quietly, crouching down to scratch behind the hound’s floppy ears. Brundle thumps her tail loudly against the floor, unperturbed by the criticism.

Shayara continues deeper into the clinic, lighting the lamps as she goes. She finds Doctor Devorak in his office, already wide awake and scribbling frantically into his journal.

No, she realizes, noting his wan complexion and the purpling skin around his eyes.  _Already_ is the wrong word. He is  _still_ awake.

Shayara tuts disapprovingly as she sets her basket at the edge of his desk, but the doctor pays her no mind until she uncaps the carafe of fresh coffee she’s brought. At once, his weary grey eyes focus on her with the intensity of a bird of prey. He lets out a moan of pleasure.

“Dear girl, you are a goddess of mercy made flesh. Give it here.”

Shayara laughs, producing a pair of earthenware cups from her basket. She pours the steaming liquid–brewed double strength, just the way he likes it–into the larger, and passes it to him. She cries out in alarm as he downs the entirety one swig, but if it burns his throat he gives no indication of pain. Though perhaps, she supposes, the poor man is too exhausted to feel much of anything.

He hands the cup back to her. “More. Please,” he adds as an afterthought, looking slightly sheepish.

Shayara obliges, filling the cup once again. “I’ve brought breakfast.”

“No time for that,” Doctor Devorak says briskly, reaching for his cup. “I just need–”

“Ah!” Shayara scolds, holding the coffee aloft. “You will eat, or you will not get another drop.”

“There’s no  _time_ ,” the doctor says, a whine creeping into his voice as he tries for the cup. Shayara raises it higher. “I’m so close to a breakthrough I can taste it.”

“And you’ll reach it all the faster on a full stomach.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, darling,” Doctor Devorak insists, making another half-hearted attempt for the coffee. “I’ll have you know I do all my best thinking in  _precisely_ this condition. I shall cure this plague or die trying.”

“And  _if_ you die trying–a likelier scenario by the day–who is going to carry on producing this cure you’re on to, hmm? Heaven knows  _I_ can’t read your writing.”

Doctor Devorak has no response to that.

Keeping the coffee just out of reach (it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that he need only stand to seize it), Shayara one-handedly unpacks the hearty repast she’s brought: bite-sized egg tarts, cold meat and cheese, a loaf of bread, and butter and honey for the same. “Eat,” she says sternly. “Don’t test me.”

She lowers the cup as incentive, and Doctor Devorak accepts it gratefully, a crimson flush staining his pale cheeks.

“You… present a reasonable argument,” he mutters defeatedly, obediently selecting an egg tart from the spread.

Shayara stares him down until he’s taken a bite.

“Good man,” she says cheerfully, lowering herself into the chair in front of the desk. She pours her own coffee over a generous serving of cream, then sets about slicing the bread.

 

* * *

 

Shayara is exhausted and sore by the time she returns to the clinic in the evening. Even so, her work is not finished. There are medicines to prepare, instruments to sterilize, bandages and blankets to launder. She’ll be here well past midnight.

It’s overwhelming. All of it. The plague. The disrepair into which Vesuvia is falling. The desperation increasingly consuming every man, woman, and child. The wretched knowledge of how very  _little_ she and Doctor Devorak are really capable of against this pitiless disease.

Shayara rests her forehead against the dry plaster wall, and for a moment she allows herself to feel overwhelmed. To feel helpless. To fear for her Aunt Vee, already quarantined in the Lazaret. To miss Asra, wherever he’s gone, and wish fervently–selfishly–that she could feel his arms around her; that she could look into his sweet face and hear him tell her everything will be alright.

But only for a moment.

And when the moment has passed, Shayara plants her feet squarely on the weathered terracotta floor and makes herself breathe. In through the nose for the count of three, out through the mouth for the count of four. Her aura pulses, warm and soothing, to the rhythm of her breath, and gradually her anxiety is wicked away into the night.

When she has calmed herself suitably, she straightens. She glances at her basket, filled to the brim with soiled bedding and bandages, and hopes Doctor Devorak is in a helpful mood.

He is far from it, in fact, and Shayara must stifle a laugh when she finds the dear man fast asleep on the couch in his office (for which he is a foot too long), an enormous book clutched to his chest.

“Ah, well. You’ll be helping with the  _next_ round of washing,” Shayara whispers. She carefully prizes the tome from his long fingers, sets it on the table beside him, and fetches a clean blanket from the linen closet.

He stirs, mumbling inarticulately as she drapes the blanket over him.

“Shh,” she says, smiling as she tucks it snugly around his lean frame. His coloring has already improved, just a little. “Rest now.”

And she sits beside him, stroking his hair, until he falls still once more.

 

 


End file.
